Literature
Chinatown
Honey, you burn my eyes
in the ashen morning.
Your amber color sparkles
behind my white shell lids
and your name sits
on the tip of my tongue,
the taste of last
summer violet rain.
Urban child, you come around;
lighting the red lanterns
on my porch like a ghost,
dropping plum blossoms
on the doorstep because
I told you once that
those are the only memories
of my mother that
I have left after years of
dealing with her
sudden death of pneumonia
when I was eleven.
Boy, you're mysterious and sweet;
the city's in your DNA.
You're the first one I call after 8 A.M.
I say, "Darling, let's get lost tonight
on the streets of a blank
sleepwalker's Chi